The Mighty Fallen
by TheHouseWitch
Summary: How the mighty have fallen! How does one rise from the ashes when all hope is lost? When battles have been won in a fruitless victory, and the world has changed forever. How does one turn back when everything you believe in is lost? The years after the War of the Last Alliance, when questions of kingship rise, and a long waited love threatens to fall into darkness and despair.


_**Disclaimer:**_ No copyright infringement intended. Everything belongs to its respectable owners.

_**A/N:** _The concept of Elrond as the possible heir to the High Kingship of the Elves has been up for much debate. Some agree with the notion, and others disagree, which seems to be the case of so many things regarding Tolkien's works.

This became such a fascinating concept to me, and I realized that few have truly written anything in depth about this possibility. Of course there are some who have written about it both in an essay format and also in fan fiction, but there is nothing that comes close to a detailed narrative of that particular concept.

There is also very little written about the politics behind Elrond's decision to decline the throne, hence the idea for the plot of this story came into being. Though originally this was my answer to the reason Elrond and Celebrían waited one hundred years (one hundred and nine to be exact) into the Third Age before they were wed. Though the answer to that question will be answered here it will not be the main focus I will attempt to answer the question regarding their long wait.

Since the topic is up for much debate and Tolkien never wrote anything concerning the succession of kingdoms and he conveniently skipped much of anything that concerns politics in Middle Earth it leaves much to the imagination. Due to that I will be giving myself a rather free reign here, but I will try my best to stay as close to canon as possible.

This is a political drama, and despite Tolkien's opinions on government and politics I think that this is a story that is worth telling.

The quotes below belong to William Shakespeare's _the Tempest_, which has been inspired by many. These two quotes are counted as the most famous from _the Tempest_, but I was greatly inspired by them during the process of writing this story. I leave their interpretation and connection to this story to you, dear reader. I think it can be read in more ways than one, and thusly should not be explained extensively by me.

I truly hope you enjoy this story and keep an open mind regarding the conflicts. As I say, this is going to be a bumpy ride, though I hope it will serve as a certain canonical gap-filler regarding the events after the destruction of Sauron and the change that occurred in Middle-earth in the first years of the Third Age.

_**Special thanks: **_No story is written without inspiration and great encouragement. I want to thank _freethinker001_ for her endless patience, and for the continuous support and advice during the process of writing this story. Secondly I want to thank my beta reader _Gwedhiel0117_ for the great insight and advice when it comes to Tolkien's works. This story would not be here if it wasn't for the help and support of these two lovely ladies, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.

* * *

_**The Mighty Fallen**_

* * *

"Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,

That, if I then had waked after long sleep,

Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open, and show riches

Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,

I cried to dream again."

* * *

"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep."

― William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_

* * *

**Prologue**

The air was filled with thick smoke and dust. No breeze swept through the stark plains and swiped the dreadful stench of death away. No water ran down the fields to wipe away the blood from their hands, or the dust from their faces. The world was dark, suffocating, deafening. Elrond wasn't sure what began and what ended. Wasteful land surrounded him, dead warriors around his feet, friend and foe. His sword felt heavy in his hand, blood and grime covering the skin on its back and his knuckles bruised and swollen. His armor weighed down upon his shoulders, his heavy blue cloak torn at the hem. Weary grey eyes watched the retreating form of the Enemy. Hails of victory reached his ears, but his heart found no victory.

Too many lost. Too many lives wasted, and for what purpose? The feeling of loss tore at his heart, and in his state he couldn't begin to question why this overwhelming feeling consumed him.

"Elrond."

Elrond blinked numbly. Everything was spinning in front of him. His hand grasped the rough sand, and he realized that his legs had given under him. He watched the dark grains sliding through his fingertips, his blood mingling with the black sand.

"Elrond."

Frantic fingers grasped his face, and through his hazy sight he saw clear blue eyes, their light reminding him of the summer skies that had been so long shielded from his view. He wanted to say something, but his words were stuck in his dry throat. He needed water, anything to quench the burning thirst.

"Elrond, stay awake. Please, stay awake."

Elrond opened his eyes, not even realizing that he had closed them in the first place.

"Here, my lord," Elrond heard an unfamiliar voice mutter, and before he knew it water was poured into his mouth. He coughed and sputtered most of the liquid out. Eventually he managed to swallow, and felt his throat clear slightly.

"Are you hurt?"

Elrond tried to gather his muddled thoughts. After some time he managed to get a hold of himself. He detected some pain in his side, perhaps a broken rib, nothing serious.

"No." The raspy reply sounded nothing like his usually soft, melodious voice.

"Can you stand?"

He nodded and allowed strong hands to pull him up. The world spun for an instant, and for a moment he thought he would vomit, but there was nothing for him to throw up. When the world had stopped turning he detangled himself from the tight hold of his protector. He took a step forward and watched the desolation in front of him with bleary eyes.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"They need my help," he stated numbly. "I need to save them."

"You are not going anywhere."

Strong hands grasped his arm, restraining him from continuing.

"Let me go." He could barely resist from fatigue.

"Elrond."

Elrond looked back and glanced into the sky blue eyes that held such kindness, and he suddenly remembered.

"Glorfindel."

"Yes, it is I," he assured, and he grasped the back of Elrond's head as if gauging the condition of it.

"Did you suffer a head injury?" he asked in concern.

Elrond shook his head, as if it would clear the thick haze that was clouding his thoughts.

"How long?" he rasped frantically.

Glorfindel seemed to understand his question, for he answered immediately.

"Four days. The Enemy has retreated for now. Gil-galad has ordered us to meet in his camp within the hour."

Elrond looked at him in confusion. Four days? Had it been that long? He remembered the battle. He remembered the hopeless grip at his heart as he fought through the endless throng of Orcs and other foul creatures. He remembered watching his men fall, their blood soiled on this unholy earth.

Battle fatigue wasn't uncommon among warriors, and he seemed to show the familiar symptoms of such fatigue. Disorientation, headaches, nausea and loss of time were some of the many effects. He should have realized it sooner, for he had helped countless warriors heal from such afflictions. Glorfindel's concern did not leave his features as he observed Elrond's reaction to the news.

"Are you sure you suffer no injury?"

"I am sure. Merely fatigued."

"When did you eat last?"

"I am not sure," he admitted.

"Let us retreat from this place. You need to see a healer."

Elrond's feeble refusal was dismissed as he was practically dragged from the desolate area. He felt that he could barely stand on his feet, and if it weren't for Glorfindel's strength he would have collapsed. He didn't know how long they walked through sand and smoke, for the land never changed and in his disorientation he had no recollection of his surroundings, but eventually they saw the welcoming sight of their camp in the distance.

"You must see a healer," Glorfindel said sternly.

Elrond clenched his jaw and pursed his lips, a sign of his great frustration. It was a rare sight to see Elrond show it. Once ill-tempered it was almost an impossible task to persuade him to do anything he didn't wish to do.

"I am perfectly adequate to assess my own health. I am fine," he countered tersely.

"Are you sure?"

Elrond turned to Glorfindel then, his great frustration burning in his grey eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and sighed heavily. The days were long, the years on the battlefield wearing down on his shoulders. It seemed that every responsibility, every death lay on his shoulders, and in this time of strain he could feel his own weakness dragging him down. They were all damaged, in their own way, and he knew that he was not the first one to crack under the heavy burden of war and death. In fact, it was a wonder he could still stand upright after everything that had occurred. Still, he felt angered and humiliated by this one moment of weakness.

"I am sorry," he said softly. "I am merely tired."

Glorfindel nodded his head, his eyes conveying his understanding.

"Go and rest. I will inform Gil-galad of your return."

Elrond murmured his thanks, and headed to his tent. Once inside he began to remove his armor. A tedious task, and so difficult that most required assistance in adorning and removing it, but this evening he preferred the quiet and solace of his own company. After he had removed his armor and chainmail he felt the familiar feeling of relief as the heavy burden was removed from his shoulders. He rolled his shoulders and winced from the single movement. His eyes examined the arm and he noticed a gash under the layer of grime and dirt. With heavy steps he walked over to a bag in the corner and opened the flap. There he kept some equipment for emergencies. He picked up clean linen and a half-filled bottle with clear liquid. Deftly he removed the cork from the bottle with his thumb. The strong scent of its contents dulled his other senses. Elrond inhaled sharply, embracing himself for the impending pain. With quick movements he poured the liquid over the open wound.

His nerves twitched automatically from the pain. He threw his head back and gritted his teeth as he felt the blazing pain radiate from the open wound up to his shoulder and down to his fingers. Elrond forced himself to look at the gaping wound, and noted with relief that it had not been infected. The spirit had cleansed most of the dirt from the now freshly bleeding wound. Droplets of smeared grime ran down his arm as he washed the remaining dirt with water. Once he managed to control the quivering of his hand he picked up the clean linen and wrapped it skillfully around his arm. When he was sure that it was tight enough for it to hold and loose enough for the wound to breathe, he pinned it down with practiced fingers.

Too tired to dress himself in a clean shirt he walked to his bedroll and lay down with a heavy sigh. Burying his face in his hands he tried to gather his thoughts.

Uncertainty and dread gnawed at his subconscious. This occurrence before was a weakness he had feared but daren't think of. For a moment he felt as if their whole mission, seven years of besieging the fortress of Barad-dûr would end fruitlessly, despite their previous victory. Whether it was fatigue or something else he wasn't entirely sure. He daren't think of other possibilities. Omens were a rarity, even amongst Elves, and despite his foresight, his gifts had come to no use in this war. They were on their own and no sign from the Valar could bring them victory.

After considerate thought he decided that he was merely tired. A week without food or rest had its effect, even on Elven warriors, and he longed for nothing but sleep.

His hand brushed a piece of paper under the worn blanket and he drew it forth with trembling fingers.

The letter was torn at the edges; the parchment was wrinkled after countless of readings under different circumstances, from heavy rains to blazing suns. The content, however, seemed to bring him a renewed hope. A hope that he had never dared to hold onto, but under the dire consequences of war and death it seemed to be the only light in the darkness. It was a hope that one day he could live in safety with the woman he loved.

Now his eyes roamed yet again over the cursively delicate script. Long since memorized, he found solace in looking upon the letter, knowing that her hand had touched the parchment, that those words had come from her heart and soul.

As he read his soul surged with warmth and a flicker of hope.

_Dear Elrond,_

_I do not know how to begin this letter for I fear that it will be the last until we meet again. I truly hope that you will receive this letter in due time. I entrusted it to one of my father's most trusted messengers, and hope that when your paths cross he will be able to give you this. If only I could be there with you and tell you these words myself. I will be staying in Lórinand with my mother, waiting and praying for your safe return. I cannot deny that I fear. I fear that the world will fall into darkness and that I will never see you again. _

_My fears must appear childish in your eyes, you who are putting your own life in danger for the future of Middle-earth. I wish I could be there with you, instead of sitting here waiting until we receive news. We know so very little. Reports come and go with long intervals, sometimes from Gil-galad's or Amdír's troops. Even those tidings are scarcely illuminating. _

_Waiting is most excruciating, for with every word I fear the worst. If I were there with you I could know for certain that you are safe and sound. I know that when you read this you must be sporting that famous frown of yours, the one when you are most displeased. I also know that if I would be there with you I would brush the crease off your brow and tell you that I could take care of myself. __As long as I am with you I feel safe._

_Do know that I have utmost faith in you, and that you will return victorious. Despite my fears I have hope. Perhaps it is a foolish hope; nevertheless, I have hope for the future. I have hope for you. Remember that you have much to live for and I will be waiting. I will wait for eternity if that is what it takes, and I will be here._

_May the Valar protect you and bring you back to me whole and safe._

_Yours forever,_

_Celebrían._

Elrond clutched the worn parchment to his heart, and closed his eyes. In his mind's eye he saw her standing in front of him, a light in the darkness. He could almost smell her sweet scent, and feel her soft skin under his fingertips.

In his weary state he settled himself under the covers. Soon his tired body fell into a restless sleep, the letter clutched to his heart.

In his dreams he stood on the wasteland of Mordor, the black lands extending towards the horizon. There was no beginning and no end; there was only him and the black land under his feet. No wind swept through the wasteland, and he felt as if he couldn't breathe, the dry air suffocating. Elrond's eyes searched his surroundings for a way out of this misery, but there was none.

By the horizon he saw a white shape descend towards him. He strained his eyes and saw the shape take the form of a magnificent steed. The horse's mane was white as snow, a complete contrast against the black sands, and on its brow was a brilliant stone, its light almost blinding.

Elrond raised his hand out and as he did so, the horse lost its footing, its legs buckling under its weight. The horse whinnied as it crashed onto the sand, black grains flying in the air. Dark red blood oozed from the shiny white mane, coating it with dark stains. Elrond's heart drummed in his heart, and in desperation he raced towards the horse. He found that he couldn't move from his spot, the faster he tried to run the further he moved away. Faster and faster he drove onwards, his cry drowning in his throat as he tried to approach the fallen horse.

Finally he collapsed on the ground in fatigue, his eyes locked with the horses dark ones, and suddenly they seemed very familiar. For a flickering moment he saw something akin to pain and regret flicker in the creature's eyes before they rolled into his head, the sturdy frame went limp. The light on the horse's forehead flickered then disappeared.

The spell broke and he felt that he could move. With achingly slow steps he approached the still animal. His hand hovered above the white mane. His eyes landed on the forehead where the light had shone. What only remained was a single stone. His hand hovered above the cold stone, but didn't dare touch it.

A crack erupted from the stone, tiny fractures slithering from the center to its core, until the light from within broke like glass and the world was showered in the brilliant light. Loud noises filled the air with sweet tunes. A thousand instruments twanged in the air, and the world dissolved into thin air.

The sound vibrated from the earth and to the sky. The clouds opened and received the brilliant light into its embrace. And then it seemed as if the secrets of the world were revealed to him, and for a fleeting moment he found complete peace. The skies closed, shielding the brilliant light from his sight until it was lost forever. A blinding pain shot through his heart, and with a cry he woke up from his sleep.

Elrond's eyes looked frantically around the dark. He felt his stomach churn and quickly he shot up and rushed out of the tent, his lungs inhaling the evening air. Falling on his knees he heaved onto the ground, but there was nothing for him to throw up. Elrond felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and once the terrible nausea subsided he looked up and saw Glorfindel standing by his side.

He didn't say anything, but merely squeezed his shoulder in comfort and helped him up. Elrond's body trembled, and with shaky hands he accepted water from Glorfindel gratefully, and a precious piece of lembas. Though the water was warm and probably several weeks old he felt oddly revived. After a few shaky breaths, he managed to pull himself together. Years of war were taking its toll on him. He could feel deep weariness in his bones, and for a split second he allowed himself to wish for the comfort of Imladris, but only for a moment, for he dared not to daydream of things that might not come to pass. There was a great chance that he would never see the fair valley again, and he would not delude himself with empty promises.

"Are you sure you do not wish to see a healer?"

"I am fine."

Glorfindel gave him a skeptical look, but didn't say anything else. For that Elrond was grateful. He could only count himself lucky to have a friend like him. He never questioned his wisdom, always following, coming to his aid when it was required. In return, Elrond offered him his help and friendship. Even Glorfindel had suffered through this war. Elrond felt a shiver run down his spine by the memory of seeing Glorfindel's battered body on the ground, a red pool of blood growing quickly by his side. That day he had almost lost his protector and friend to his death, something he could never forgive himself for.

"Gil-galad called for you. He wishes to see you in his quarters," Glorfindel murmured gently, bringing Elrond out of his morbid thoughts.

Elrond nodded and prepared himself for the meeting. Glorfindel watched carefully as he put on a tunic of royal blue. A small huff of frustration escaped his lips when he tried to detangle his hair and braid the tousled mess.

"You need help?" Glorfindel asked. His hand rose in the air to aid him, but it was quickly lowered by the stinging gaze Elrond shot his way. Though, he could barely contain the smirk on his lips as he watched the younger elf frustratingly fix his hair that never seemed to obey.

Glorfindel shook his head at his friend's stubbornness. He plucked the comb from his fingers and ran it smoothly through the unruly locks.

"I know that you are frustrated. We are all tired, but do not push those who love you away," Glorfindel reproached as his long fingers braided the dark hair.

Elrond closed his eyes and blew out a long breath in a desperate attempt to calm his mind. He knew all too well that Glorfindel was right, though he was loath to admit it.

"I apologize for my dishonorable behavior," he muttered.

"Apology accepted." Glorfindel tied the braid together and, with a final critical glance at his handiwork, declared that his work was done.

Once Elrond had managed to make himself somewhat presentable for his king he picked up his trusted sword, as protocol required, and headed out of the tent.

They walked side by side in silence. The camp was almost completely silent as if every warrior waited with baited breath for the king's statement.

They halted by the entrance of a stately tent that rose in the middle of the camp. Two guards stood by the entrance, though neither of them prevented the two Elf-lords from entering the tent.

Elrond stepped inside with Glorfindel close behind. Inside the tent it was almost completely empty, except for a long table and four scattered chairs. The surface of the table was covered with maps and stationaries, and bending over one of the large maps were three figures. One of them had dark hair that was tightly braided from his stern features. Upon his brow lay a thin circlet of mithril cast with a single sapphire that shone despite the surrounding darkness.

Grey eyes looked up, and brightened slightly as he observed those who had entered the tent.

"Ah. Elrond, Glorfindel, you arrive at last." His baritone voice brooked no argument. Despite his lack of stately robes that was required of his status, he had an aura that depicted that this was the sort of person that was used to command. His stance was sure, proud and unyielding, though there was a certain air about him that radiated comfort and easiness that was rare to be seen in these days.

There was no question that this was the High King of the Elves west of the Misty Mountains.

A white-haired Elf stood beside him, his drawn features focused on the new arrivals. Pale eyes regarded Elrond with kindness, yet dread.

"Your mission was successful, I deem. I was surprised that I did not receive your report personally, but I gather it went as planned."

Elrond nodded his head and accepted the offered drink from the third member, a silver-haired Elf, who nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Aye, my lord. We have secured Barad-dûr. Thranduil's forces have joined us, and await your signal."

"Let us hope they wait this time," came the sardonic reply from the white-haired Elf.

Elrond purposefully dodged the comment, and continued his report.

"We drove the last forces into the land. Our scouts report that they gather by the base of Orodruin."

Gil-galad's lips turned up in a smirk, a gleam lit his eyes at the prospect of victory.

"Then Sauron must abandon his lair sooner or later."

The others stayed silent, despite knowing what was about to occur. At last their years of labor would bring an end to this war, whether they would end up victorious or not.

Gil-galad leaned over the maps and scrolls that cluttered the table, and raised his eyes to meet each one of his companions, nodding his head slightly as if making a silent decision.

"Celeborn." He turned to the silver-haired lord. "Inform Thranduil of our plan of attack." Celeborn nodded his head, and bowed before retreating to gather his own forces. After Amdír's death it had fallen into his place to command the forces from Lórinand.

Gil-galad's eyes turned to the white-haired Elf. His gaze was met squarely, keen eyes betraying nothing but pride for the one he called his son.

"Círdan. I need you to secure our position by the Gates. Make sure that our enemies are trapped within the planes of Gorgoroth. I also need you to speak with Elendil about our decisions."

"Aye, my lord."

Gil-galad's eyes found Glorfindel's at last. A silent communication passed between them. Elrond watched them unobtrusively, knowing full well that their exchange was not meant for his ears.

"You know what to do," he finally murmured. Glorfindel placed a hand on his heart and bowed to Gil-galad before leaving Elrond and Gil-galad alone.

The two of them stayed silent for a time. Gil-galad's gaze fell critically over his cousin, who made it a point of directing his gaze elsewhere. Eventually Gil-galad's expression hardened into a steel of proficiency.

"Elrond. I want you to command our main force. I predict that Sauron will soon be forced to engage directly in this war."

"Do you personally aim to defeat him?" Elrond asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.

"Yes, we can only attack and hope to find his weakness. There is no doubt in my mind that he can be defeated, and all we can do is hope that our speculations are true and that his power shall diminish without the One Ring."

Elrond nodded his head tersely. They had known this moment would come. He feared that this would only end with a great sacrifice.

"I want you to make me a promise, Elrond."

Elrond looked at him with dismay, though he found his voice muttering despite his will.

"Anything, my lord."

Gil-galad's expression lacked his usual audacity, and he seemed older, and wearier than he had ever seen him before. He grasped his shoulders, and Elrond found himself forced to look into the perceptive eyes of his king.

"You do not confront the Dark Lord unless there is no other option."

Elrond opened his mouth to protest, but Gil-galad's tight hold on his arm prevented him from speaking.

"You hold one of the Three in your possession. Under no circumstance may it fall into his hands. Do you understand me? I need you to promise me this."

His eyes were wild. Whether it was fear or something else he wasn't too sure, but they held some untraceable emotion that forced him to nod his head.

"I promise."

"Good." Gil-galad dropped his hold on Elrond's arm, his countenance calmer, though his stance remained terse.

"Now go and gather your strength. I need you well rested."

"I promise. I shall not fail you, my lord," Elrond said dismissively, reluctant to bring up his fatigue into their conversation. Gil-galad smiled sadly, his eyes betraying his worry.

"You never do," he murmured, and he turned his attention to the array on the table. Elrond saw that it was best to leave him to his thoughts. His hand was raised to the flap when he hesitated in his step. He turned around, a feeling of dread preventing him from leaving his king and his closest family behind. It was as if he was supposed to remember something, but he wasn't quite sure what. At last he decided that he was merely tired, and walked out.

As the flap of the tent whipped back behind him he heard a faint murmur from within, the words bringing him a great sense of dread.

"Tomorrow all will end."

* * *

Never before had such splendor been seen before as Elves and Men joined together and fought for their freedom. Everything had led to that one moment, and as their armies battled under the blazing fires of Mount Doom so grew the fire in their hearts. Few would remember how long this battle lasted, for every soul and every beating heart was as one against the darkness of Mordor.

As they drew closer Elrond could feel a great presence, a dark power that erupted through his bones. It was as if a great fire ran through his veins, an unmistakable power so great that it brought a sudden jolt to his limps. The dark presence woke an ancient force in his blood that hadn't been woken in thousands of years. Elrond's grip on his blade tightened as he observed the emerging shadow rise by the case of Orodruin.

"Sauron." The name fell like ash from his lips.

Darkness surrounded the dark form, and those who dared approach him fell, for his strength was too strong. His armor was black as the pits of his eyes. His weapon, a great maze wrought with his very hands, burned those who came in contact with it.

Elrond kept his stance strong, his gaze unwavering. Behind him he could hear the ongoing battle, but as Sauron's form came nearer all sound faded.

At last Gil-galad stepped forward, his spear Aeglos in hand. The sapphire on his forehead gleamed in the darkness, grey eyes shining with pride and defiance. He ran forward and jumped up, the glistening blade directed onwards.

Sauron's gaze fell on Gil-galad, the pure malice and hatred burning in the dark coals towards the one who had defied him.

Elrond stood by, his heart hammering in his chest, and he suddenly knew.

"Ereinion!"

His voice bellowed through the thick air. Fire and ash fell from the murky clouds above like rain. Elrond's heartbeat drummed in his ears, his blood rushing to his head, his body fighting through the throng of Orcs that momentarily shielded his eyes from the sight before him.

Calloused hands gripped the hilt of his trusted sword tightly and he swung it skillfully, cleaving the head of the nearest Orc in half.

He caught a glimpse of Gil-galad, his countenance bright as the stars, his eyes ablaze with fire and loathing as he swung Aeglos towards the looming figure of Sauron himself. With a roar the blade crashed against the dark armor, but despite his might and strength it was not enough to hold against the Dark Lord. His mighty weapon crushed against the mighty weapon of the Enemy, the fiery gold of the One Ring glinting on his finger. Gil-galad cried out and made a move to slash his spear through Sauron's hand, but as he almost reached his mark the great weapon of the Enemy crashed against Gil-galad's right side, his body burning with the contact. For a moment time froze in place, and all sound seemed to disappear. There was a small intake of breath, and then the world came crashing down.

Ereinion Gil-galad, the High King of Elves in Middle-earth fell at the Dark Lord's feet, his remains smoking and turning to dust.

Elrond's heart stopped and faltered in his step, his roaring cry drowning in the chaos of the battle. He fought his way through, not caring about his last promise to Gil-galad. He knew deep down in his heart that it was over, but all reason fled his mind as he ran towards his fallen king. The smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils, the stench almost making him gag.

Numbingly he fell on his knees, his eyes searching for any sign of life.

Half of Gil-galad's body had burned to black coal, the intricate leaf patterns on his armor lost to the burn. The visible skin on his right arm had burned to the bone. His face had blessedly been saved from most of the burn, its deathly pallor contrasting against the burning remains of his body. His grey eyes, once lit with the light of the stars, stared blankly up to the black skies above.

"Ereinion," his hoarse voice said quietly.

Achingly, slowly, he searched for any sign of life, but there was none.

"Please…." He didn't quite know to whom he was begging, whether it was to Gil-galad, Mandos to release him or Eru to provide him strength to save him. His hands, which were covered with grime and blood, fumbled over the pale skin, his mind searching for any sign of the familiar light of Gil-galad's fëa, but it was over. He was gone.

Trembling fingers touched the smooth forehead, and rested over the still, cold eyes, and slowly lowered his eyelids.

Leaning over his still form, dry lips graced his king's forehead, his hand resting on his heart.

"May your star shine until the end of time," he whispered.

A single tear fell from his eye, and dropped onto the corner of blue lips until it dried on the grey-tainted skin.

His senses tensed when he perceived a presence behind him. In his state he was too slow to react, his sword long forgotten on the uneven ground. He turned around and saw steel whip towards him, adrenaline rushing through his veins. And with amazing reflexes he brought his sword up, the loud clang erupting through the air as steel hit steel. Taken off guard, the Orc lost his footing, which gave Elrond the chance to slice his sword through the Orc's chest.

His blood ran hot in his veins and the realization that Gil-galad, his king, mentor, and best friend was dead struck him with full force. His eyes darkened and something deep inside him snapped. His fist connected with the dead creature beneath him. The Orc's head flew back, dark blood splattering in the air. He had no control of his actions, the burning hate soaring through his very being, controlling his motions.

"Elrond."

The sound of his name broke him from the fog. He choked back a cry as he was encircled in someone's arms. He cried out his pain, frustration and grief.

A sudden roar drew him from his grief. Elrond's hazy gaze turned to the side. In the distance he watched as Elendil fell on the ground by Sauron's feet, the loud clatter of Narsil breaking under him. Isildur cried out, and fell on his knees by his father's side. Sauron approached him, mace in hand, ready to deliver the final blow. Elrond knew that all would end. They would fail and Sauron would find victory and everything would be swept in darkness and despair. Determined to not let his King's death be in vain, Elrond stood up defiantly, fire burning in his eyes.

Time seemed to slow down. As Elrond marched onwards, his sword in hand, Isildur brought forth the broken shard of his father's sword and hewed at Sauron's hand.

The air itself stilled, Elves, Men and minions of Sauron stopped in the midst of their fight. A great light shone, and the earth vibrated under their feet. A piercing cry sliced the air, and as the One Ring fell on the soiled earth of Mordor, Sauron's armor caved under his spirit and splintered into pieces. A great wind swept through the land, a shockwave of sound erupted, the spirit of Sauron fleeing, burning his hröa to nothing but dust. His iron crown and the last remains of his armor fell on the ground with a loud thud.

Above, the thick clouds departed, revealing the bright stars. The wind ceased, and the earth heaved a sigh of relief.

Then everything was silent.

* * *

_**Extra Notes:**_

*In Norse mythology dreaming of a white horse is a portent of death.

*The Siege of Barad-dûr lasted for seven years, ending with the vanquishing of Sauron.

*Celeborn's presence in the war is questionable. There is nowhere stated that he was there. However I deem that he would not have sat idly by as most of his kin fought to their deaths. Therefore I made him a Commander of Amdír's forces after his fall.

*Amdír was the King of Lórinand (later named Lothlórien). He was slain in the Battle of Dagorlad in S.A. 3434. (_Unfinished Tales_, p. 252)

*Amroth is the son of Amdír King of Lórinand. For the purpose of this story he did not fight in the war. For practicality he would have governed Lórinand in his father's stead. It would have been crucial to have at least one Elven Commander on the sidelines in case the war would prove fruitless.

*It's not entirely known where Celebrían dwelled while the war raged on. Some believe that she was in Lothlórien, Lindon or even Rivendell. Again, I made a decision that she dwelled in Lothlórien mainly for literary purposes.


End file.
